


...Ready for It?

by sirfeit



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Blood, Confinement, Dehumanization, Dom/sub Undertones, Handcuffs, Hurt/comfort kind of, Injury, M/M, Masochism, Physical Abuse, canon only as a framing device, not safe or sane but consensual, skybox au, technically canon to season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 16:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18876733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfeit/pseuds/sirfeit
Summary: Bellamy hauls him back up, to his feet, and holds him there, cuffed and hopefully bleeding a little. So he can taste the blood in his mouth, feel it in his nose. And he’s still struggling, because he loves it, and Bellamy keeps hold of him.--Murphy fantasizes about what he wants Bellamy to do to him, framed with the only environment he knows; the Skybox.And he can be my jailer // I forget their names now, I'm so very tame now / Never be the same now, now





	...Ready for It?

**Author's Note:**

> it's another fic with all foreplay and no sex! I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> it's hopefully first in a series of This Kind of Fic based on Taylor Swift's album "Reputation".

Bellamy shakes his head just a little when Murphy steps into his tent, wanting to talk to the Princess or whatever, so he gets out. And there weren’t other orders attached to that, so he just — he takes some time alone.

He takes shelter behind the hollow of a tree. It would suck if someone found him.

It’s like this. It’s — a fantasy, or a dream. He wants to keep poking at it, keep working it out. He wants to jerk off to it, but not — not quite yet. Keep it special or something.

It’s fucking pathetic, okay. Shut up.

He’s back in the skybox. Bellamy is a guard. He’s back in the skybox and he’s getting into it again with somebody, just so he can feel something, otherwise it all just melds together in an endless waste of time. And Bellamy’s a new guard, right. Bellamy’s just gotten assigned to the Skybox, and he’s on duty for the first time alone. And yeah, okay. Maybe Murphy had caught his eye first, before he’d thrown the first punch. They’re understaffed, they’re always understaffed, so it’s gonna take at least a minute for backup to get there.

Bellamy has to take him down first, by himself.

The first thing he tries is his shock baton. It hits Murphy in the stomach, and it hurts, so he lets his grip go loose on Sterling, but he’s not down for the count yet, so he gets a hit on Bellamy when he’s not expecting it, and —

And Bellamy has to hold him down. Bellamy’s knee digs into the small of his back. He gets one hand around both of Murphy’s wrists. No amount of yanking releases them — Bellamy’s strong. He grinds Murphy’s face into the ground, too, so his face is all screwed up in pain. And it’s — the warmth of Bellamy’s hand before he gets the metal cuffs around his wrists. 

Bellamy hauls him back up, to his feet, and holds him there, cuffed and hopefully bleeding a little. So he can taste the blood in his mouth, feel it in his nose. And he’s still struggling, because he loves it, and Bellamy keeps hold of him. When the other guard gets there, to deal with Sterling or the other kids, Bellamy drags him off.

And in the hallway. Bellamy shoves Murphy into the wall. “What’s your name, inmate?” he growls, and he says it the same way he says princess now, and Murphy feels warm. Real warm. Bellamy doesn’t like the pause, and twists his arms behind his back. Hurts, but it lets Bellamy see the ID stamped on the back of his shirt. John Murphy. #279. “You been here a long time, haven’t you?” and he sounds kind of — sympathetic? Maybe? And he relaxes his hold.

No. No. Murphy doesn’t like that. He twists and bites and draws blood — or he thinks so, anyway, it’s all he can taste — and Bellamy swears and hits him hard, and the shock baton gets turned up and it’s like all his nerves are on fire and numb at the same time and he kind of wants to throw up. It’s not as good as Bellamy’s hands on him, but it makes him limp enough that he goes without incident to solitary.

Someone’s laughing, just beyond the trees. Wrap this up. It’s not like anybody would miss him, but — Bellamy might miss him.

Yeah, right.

***

After the bonfire that night, Murphy gets some time to himself. Mbege’s passed out, and Bellamy doesn’t need him right now, as enforcer or as lackey, so he relaxes, easy, easy, in the mess of clothes and rags that functions as his bunk.

Bellamy visits him while he’s in solitary. He was already mouthy to a guard, so they took away his sleeping mat, so it’s just him rattling around this box. He’s tried jumping up and smashing the always-on lightbulb so he can get some fucking sleep, but he isn’t tall enough, and the toilet/sink is too far away to leverage himself properly. 

This isn’t a fucking rehash of a memory, this is a fantasy. He’s in solitary. There’s nobody else around to see. Bellamy comes to visit him. He brings handcuffs, his shock baton, and he’s ready for cruelty. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Murphy asks.

“I’m the only one that can keep you in line,” says Bellamy, which is true, even though it doesn’t make sense in this particular context. Whatever. It’s hot.

“Like fuck you are,” says Murphy, his fists clenching. “Nobody can. I’m dead in eighteen more months, I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Didn’t say you were afraid of me,” says Bellamy. “Just saying that I can keep you in line. You’ll be a model prisoner by the time I’m done with you. Might even survive.”

Everyone knew from the second he entered the skybox that he was never gonna pass his review. But if someone had believed in him, if he had even one guard to vouch for him — It’s been three years and Murphy feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Get ahold of yourself! This isn’t even real! “What the fuck is your plan?” Murphy asks.

“I can make things better for you,” says Bellamy. “But you’ll have to earn it.” Right. Whatever. Murphy drops to his knees, because survival, who gives a shit. Bellamy stares at him, and then finally gets it. “Oh, I don’t trust you enough for that yet, 279. I know you’ve got teeth.”

Murphy grinds them together. “Then what the fuck do you want?”

Bellamy kicks him in the balls, and Murphy collapses over in pain. He’s going to throw up. He glares up at Bellamy, trying to comprehend how easily he was betrayed. Bellamy crouches over him, grips his jaw painfully. “First,” says Bellamy. “You’re going to stop swearing at me. You call me sir when you address me. You got that?”

“Fuck you, sir,” Murphy grits out.

Bellamy slaps him. It stings. “One more try.”

“Yessir.”

Bellamy lets go of his face, but kind of strokes him. It feels…. good. He hates it. “It’s a good start,” says Bellamy. “We’ll keep working on it.” That’s what Bellamy says when he fucks up something he doesn’t know how to do. Like when he couldn’t get his knife to stick in the tree on the first try. It’s — nice. Or whatever. “I’ll see that you get your sleeping mat back, and that I’m your guard for the foreseeable future.”

“Yessir,” says Murphy again, still feeling Bellamy’s hand on his jaw. Bellamy stands up to leave.

Mbege shifts in his sleep. Murphy packs it away for later.

***

It’s the night after Murphy and Mbege held Wells down and made him take off his cuff, and Bellamy had touched his shoulder like, yeah, that’s mine, that’s my enforcer, all pleased and proud, and he feels like he can’t sleep, so he pulls it out again. 

Bellamy drags Murphy out of his bunk in the middle of the night, cuffs him real tight, and tells him, soft, his breath tickling Murphy’s ear, that he’s going to shock him into compliance if he makes so much as a single sound. Murphy goes easy. Bellamy brings him to a different wing of the skybox, where the prisoners who need special attention are kept. Bellamy brings him to a locked door: the number 279 is stamped on the front, and there’s a little barred window towards the top. There’s glass behind it, so it’s not open, but at least he can see out from it. Bellamy shoves him inside. Murphy stumbles in, as Bellamy turns on the light behind him. There’s a fucking — it’s a fucking — there’s a light switch inside his cell. 

If he’s not cuffed like he is now, he can control whether the light is on or off inside his cell. So it’s either — an incredible amount of freedom, or Bellamy is always gonna keep him cuffed. His mouth is dry. And it’s that — that Bellamy specifically is gonna keep him cuffed, because Bellamy set this up, brought him here, he’s in charge. For the foreseeable future, he said.

He also has like, elbows and feet to turn the light off with. But the thought of being kept in Bellamy’s cuffs always is kind of hot. 

The cell itself is — nicer. It’s not just rough concrete edges. It’s that different stainless steel material that like, the dining hall is made out of. There’s a bunk, no mattress. There’s a shower stall, in one corner, with the floor caved in around it so that it all goes down the drain. He can — he can take a shower whenever he wants. There’s that toilet/sink deal. There’s a — table? A desk? sticking out of the wall, with a chair bolted to the floor in front of it. Fuck. This is long-term solitary. 

Bellamy is talking to him. “Welcome to your new home,” he says. “You stay good, you obey my orders, you get rewards. Short-term rewards, so you see the benefit of it. Like a mattress for your bunk, or hot water in the shower.”

“And if I’m not good?”

“You get punished,” says Bellamy, and Murphy is — Murphy — just. Fuck. “Come stand over here.”

Murphy crosses to stand where Bellamy’s pointing. Bellamy drags a chain out from underneath the bunk, cuffs it to Murphy’s ankle. The chain goes to some kind of heavy staple underneath the bunk. Murphy growls and immediately tests it; it’s snug, but not uncomfortable. It’s not going anywhere. 

Bellamy is standing across from him, looking smug. “How’s it feel?” he asks, like he’s proud.

Murphy spits in his face. Bellamy recoils, and then sucker-punches him in the gut. Murphy hurts, loses his balance, is on his knees again. Yeah. That’s real good. He pants, looks up. Bellamy wipes the spit off his face. “You wanna try that again?” asks Bellamy.

“How about you get these handcuffs off me first? Sir?”

“That’s another thing you’re gonna have to earn. Time out of cuffs.”

The strain in his arms. The bite of the metal against his skin. Murphy shuts up and simmers. Bellamy’s already fucked him over. Bellamy reaches out, ruffles his hair, finishes it with a yank. Murphy gasps out, tries to lean into it, but he’s afraid of overbalancing himself. “Try to sleep, if you can. I’ve got eyes on you.” There’s a security camera in the corner, watching everything. “I’ll be back for you in the morning.”

Murphy doesn’t reply, because fuck you Bellamy isn’t going to get him anywhere. Bellamy shuts off the light when he leaves, locks the door behind him. Murphy explores the limits of the shackle around his ankle. Doesn’t get him far enough to reach the light. Another ‘reward’, then. Drags the stupid chain back to his stupid bunk. It’s just a concrete slab, and he has to lay on his stomach in order to not put all the weight on his bound hands. He lies still, breathing as deep as he can, until his body is convinced to go to sleep.

***

It’s been three days. He hasn’t earned time out of the cuffs except for an hour here or there to get the circulation back into his arms, or twice, to piss. It’s been. Too long. Trapped on the ankle chain, lying on the bare bunk. Bellamy comes by with slop drinks twice a day that he gets to suck through a straw and offers him another chance to be Respectful. Murphy usually drinks half and then knocks the cup onto Bellamy. Unfortunately for him, they’re spill-proof. Or maybe fortunately. 

Anyhow. He’s lying facedown on his bunk. Sometimes he rattles the ankle chain just to have something to do, but mostly he’s chasing sleep past the pain. And he’s so — fuck this. He strains against the cuffs, past the point where it hurts, struggles against them till he can feel them cutting into his wrists. That pain is kind of grounding, then — something that he can control, at last. Does it until he can feel blood trickling down into his palms, and then keeps doing it. Hurts real fuckin bad. Helps him drift into sleep.

Bellamy wakes him up, and he’s fucking pissed. First, the familiar grinding of his face into the bunk. That’s fine. Then, Bellamy reaches down and unlocks the cuffs around his wrist, and — Christ, that hurts. Blood pumping back through his wrists, after being clamped down for so long. Bellamy tugs him upward into a sitting position, till his hands rest in his lap. He looks up at Bellamy. What do you want, I was sleeping.

Bellamy slaps him across the face. Ow. He picks up one of Murphy’s bloodied wrists. “You see this?” he asks.

“Yeah, I was there,” says Murphy, dumb. Gets him another slap.

“The only one hurting you is gonna be me, Nine,” says Bellamy. “You got that?”

Murphy feels all warm again. “Yes sir,” he says.

“Now come sit at the table,” says Bellamy, and Murphy shuffles over to the desk. Bellamy’s laid out some first aid supplies. “Put your wrists on top.” Murphy obeys. “This will hurt some, but you’re going to keep your hands right where they are now,” orders Bellamy, and then he begins putting cream on top of the cuts, bandaging them. Murphy keeps very still with his eyes on his own wrists, as Bellamy wraps and binds cloths over them. When he’s done, he packs up the supplies into his box. “What did you learn today?” asks Bellamy.

That you’ll take care of me if I need it. That you don’t like to see me hurt myself. “That you’re a fucking —“ Slap.

“One more try, Nine.” Real patient. “If you answer right, you can get a shower before I leave.”

Bribery. Alright. “That the only one who gets to hurt me is you,” he says. “Not — other guards, other inmates, not myself. Just you.”

Bellamy touches his hair, real gentle. “Good job, Nine. You did good.”

It’s a nice thing to fall asleep to.

***

Finn and Clarke get back from the river and announce that it’s safe to swim in, and Clarke’s hair is wet and so is Finn’s and Bellamy delegates a couple tasks to him before he takes Roma and two other girls down to the river with him. Murphy burns, and he gets into a Yell before Mbege pulls him away, and he takes a minute on the second floor of the dropship to cool down. Where were we? The shower. Thematic, yeah.

Before Bellamy leaves his cell, he has Murphy strip for his shower.

Look. Look. Murphy has been naked and vulnerable and wet in front of a lot of guards before, and it really doesn’t even matter anymore. But he’s — afraid? of Bellamy, of opening himself up to more harm.

Okay he’s also afraid of popping a boner when Bellamy touches him or whatever.

So he doesn’t strip down, just bites his bottom lip hard and shakes his head. He hasn’t lifted his bandaged hands from the table. Bellamy hasn’t moved to cuff him again.

“No?” asks Bellamy, dangerous. “This is your reward,” he says. 

Murphy does not know how to be honest. He knows how to deflect, spit, disobey. He trembles, unsure, keeping himself still. He knows that one wrong move is gonna end up with him force-stripped and held down in the freezing cold spray anyway. 

Bellamy comes back to Murphy and unlocks him from the ankle chain. Murphy feels like his whole body has frozen.

Bellamy takes off his own shirt. He folds it nicely on Murphy’s bunk. He strips down to his underwear, and Murphy stares. Bellamy is like....ripped. And the tease of his hips to his legs to his — don’t think about that. “Take off your clothes, Nine.”

Lowkey, what the fuck. Murphy strips, real careful about the bandages around his wrists. Bellamy takes him by the arm, brings his wrists up to an eyelet in the wall, above his head. Cuffs him to the wall like that, and he doesn’t even get the warmth of Bellamy’s hands over his wrists. He yanks at them immediately, and Bellamy hits him upside the head. “You ever learn anything, Nine?” he asks. Murphy shivers, his back to Bellamy, his cock soft between his legs, and — 

Bellamy turns the water on. It’s lukewarm, like the water from the river is, warmed by the sun. Not freezing like he could’ve made it. It’s still a shock to his skin, and he immediately steps forward to the wall to avoid it. “Coulda done this myself,” he tells Bellamy, the strain in his arms already making itself known. 

“You haven’t even shown me you can feed yourself yet, Nine, you expect me to let you clean yourself up?”

Murphy feels very — warm. In his cheeks, on his neck. Bellamy’s gonna put his hands on Murphy’s body, big and powerful and scrubbing gently and — “That’s — different.” 

Bellamy doesn’t want to hear any of that. He takes the showerhead off the wall, flicks some kind of switch on it, and then the water pressure is different and it hurts. Murphy yells into the wall, and Bellamy just hoses him down. It’s unpleasant, and Murphy feels kind of — just like another task Bellamy has to do, something to finish up. Like he isn’t even really here. Murphy presses his forehead into the wall and tries to pretend he’s not getting hard. Bellamy noticing or commenting on it is too — well. Too real, too possible, to contemplate, so he shies away from it. Bellamy turns the water off, eventually, and dries himself off with a towel he pulls from nowhere. Murphy braces to be patted down in the same way, but Bellamy just pulls his own clothes back on, and then holds a hand to the back of Murphy’s neck, presses him into the wall. Stay. Murphy keeps himself there even after Bellamy has withdrawn his hand. See? I’m good. 

Bellamy lets himself out of the cell. Murphy raises his head, trying to figure out what, but he sees the red light blinking from the camera and —

lowers his head back to the wall. 

Someone’s banging at the door. He shakes the feeling off. Later.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> I Will Take Prompts or Suggestions, here or my twitter is @icetastrophe
> 
> please leave me comments! thank you for reading!


End file.
